


I Have Heard an Angel Cry

by lilacsandlavender



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: F/M, Short One Shot, the way i love writing from different characters' povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsandlavender/pseuds/lilacsandlavender
Summary: Short one-shot on what Tewkesbury was thinking as he lay half-conscious on Basilwether Hall's floor towards the end of the Enola Holmes movie. Hint: it revolved around the girl he's grown crazy about.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 4
Kudos: 144





	I Have Heard an Angel Cry

I heard her before I felt her, and I felt her before I saw her. That was the order of events, though I suppose that I should be more concerned with being grateful to be alive than the sequence of how I came to realize that I could never live the same without Enola Holmes.

My ears still rung with the memory of the sound of a rifle going off, but what scarred them the most was hearing the wail of Enola screaming “No!” before I was thrown back, hit my head on the ground, and promptly knocked out. I could barely register any thoughts as I came back to the world of consciousness, yet somehow all the voices fighting for dominance in my head became submissive to the only one that my groggy mind was able to discern: Enola’s. (This mind of mine had an interesting habit of letting me know what was most important at the oddest of times.)

She was crying my name, or maybe I was dreaming – the voice was faint in the back of my subconsciousness – but either way I wanted to curse myself for not having the strength to say the words that were clawing frantically to get out of my chest (if they ever got past my racing heart and armor): “Enola, I’m fine!”.

Then I thought I felt something, some kind of pressure that wasn’t from the impact of the bullet, on my chest, and my suspicions were confirmed when that pressure became warmth cupping my face.

Don’t cry, Enola, I begged in my head as I heard her sniffles and whimpers continue to haunt the eerily quiet hall. And then I felt something for sure: Enola’s face resting beneath my shoulder and her weight layed on top of mine as if she were protecting me from another bullet that I knew wouldn’t come because she and Grandmother thought I was dead. Was it bad that in that moment all I could focus on was how her body seemed to mold into mine? With how perfectly content I was with Enola so close? With how much I wanted the strength to simply raise my arms so I could wrap them around her and stay like that for maybe not forever but at least a while?

Her fingers snaked into mine and though my body was still in shock from the blow, that small movement made me resolve to concentrate on pushing away any fatigue so I could put her worries to rest. I fixated all energy and stamina I had on first curling my palm into hers, and then opening my eyes.

Am I dead? Did I die? I mused as my vision cleared. I thought I had for a split second because all I saw was an angel, her tender touch and worried expression helping me sit up, but it was just Enola. No, scratch that. It was an angel. Turns out mine appeared with tear-stained cheeks and tangled hair instead of white wings and a halo.

I didn’t trust my feelings to form into intelligent words, so I unbuttoned my coat, unable to really say anything of intelligence other than how much I wasn’t not intelligent. Then I noticed the blood on the side of her head and the worry set in.

Here I was, in the middle of the entrance to my home, having come this close to accepting death’s dance, and all I could notice was how she was doing. It was almost laughable if the situation wasn’t so dire. But I didn’t feel like smiling, not just yet.

So instead of laughing or asking questions, I let my fingertips show my concern, guiding them to graze across the site of her wound. I murmured words that I knew would mean something to her, “You were made to fight”, and I hoped that by promising them, I could somehow, if at all possible, claim her injury as my own.

I pressed my forehead against the top of her head, and then it was her arms around me for the second time that week. I dared to breathe, and I hugged her back, hit suddenly with awareness that life was incredibly fragile and that tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed.

I’d been living my life in a bubble, and when Enola came along, she’d popped the bubble, but in the best way possible. She taught me to pursue the ideas I cared about. She showed me that I have real influence to make other people’s lives better. She’d believed in me – in my life – even after I was presumed dead, so couldn’t I have that same faith in the people I loved?

We had to deal with confronting my grandmother then, but as I stood up and chucked the armor plate to the side, I knew one thing for sure: Enola was the most beautiful and courageous person I’d met, her soul full of good intentions, and come what may in my future, but I sure wanted her in it.


End file.
